


Liar, Liar

by Hinn_Raven



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silsi Cadash is a liar who doesn’t trust people. Luckily, most of her friends are fine with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liar, Liar

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore another of my inquisitors! I have more in this universe, and we’ll see where this goes as I keep playing around with this.

Silsi Cadash is a devoted Andrastian, a rogue who prefers daggers, and was a minor negotiator for the Cadash Carta family before she fell out of the fade.

Silsi Cadash is also a notorious liar.

The Andrastian part is true—Silsi’s great-grandfather had declared that it’s just so much  _ easier  _ to do trade with humans if they went to their Chantry services and talked about Andraste all day long, especially since their biggest customer base were Templars who were buying extra lyrium on the side. Silsi’s grandmother, upon her ascent to the head of the family, had loosened her father’s requirement, but Silsi’s part of the family had stayed with the faith.

The rogue part is also true—it was hard to hide the fact that daggers are the weapons she’s the best with, even if she prefers poison and subtler methods. 

But Silsi Cadash is no minor negotiator. She was twenty-five years old, and had been stabbing, poisoning, and climbing her way up the Carta leadership ladder since she was fifteen. She had grown up by her grandmother’s knee like most of her cousins, but while most of her cousins would become smugglers or guards and forget their grandmother’s lessons about deceit and control and forethought, Silsi took to the lessons like a fish to water.

By the time she was thirteen, Silsi knew exactly what she wanted to be when she grew up.

She wanted to be her grandmother.

Valora Cadash had ascended to the head of the family at the age of thirty, the youngest child of her father and his only surviving child. (Since Valora had carefully arranged for all of their deaths over the years.)

Now in her eighties, Valora still has a mind like a steel blade and a smile that never falters. Her hair is the color of snow on the mountaintops and her eyes are grey as slate. She’s immune to every kind of poison any Carta dwarf knows, has an entire cabal of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all blindly obedient to her, and is  _ not  _ going to die anytime soon, at least according to the healers that Silsi bribes to keep an eye on her grandmother’s health.

Silsi might not be her grandmother’s favorite grandchild (that honor definitely goes to Silsi’s cousin Pod, who’s a genuinely nice girl who keeps house for Valora and already has twin babies of her own), but she’s certainly one of the ones who understands Valora the best. Which is why Silsi is third in line to succeed her.

Before the Inquisition, Silsi was fairly certain it would only take six weeks to propel herself to the top—if she wanted to be there anytime soon. Which she didn’t. Because then  _ she’d  _ be the target. Which would just be unfortunate. No, better let Uncle Striker take care of that.

The Inquisition, unfortunately for Silsi’s plans of Carta-domination and a life of crime, changed all of that.

Luckily, Silsi’s always been quick at adapting.

She sends off her report on the events of the Conclave, including the rumors surrounding her own visit to the Fade with a terrified looking Carta smuggler she found lurking in the Inquisition’s makeshift camp. The smuggler’s never heard of Silsi, but it’s the brand on her face that scares him.

The brand on her left cheek marks her as a member of the Cadash crime family—which isn’t saying much, since it’s a rather extended clan. Most of the dwarves Silsi’s met have the last name, which makes arranging marriages or finding a good partner difficult. But the one on her right cheek tells her specialties.

Intelligence  _ and  _ violence. One had to petition the Deshyr in order to get permission to specialize that way. And Gran Valora was  _ very  _ careful about who she let do it, and harsh on anyone who betrayed that trust.

The mark meant she was dangerous, clever,  _ and  _ trusted by the Deshyr.

He takes her coded report and runs for the hills.

A week later, a dwarf trader comes through town without a brand, but hair a familiar shade of red.

“Gran’s not happy you got yourself mixed up with this,” Pod says. She’s pregnant again, or at least pretending to be, judging from the bulge underneath her neat little dress. Pod is pretty in a way Silsi is not. Her red hair is long and silky, pulled into an elegant twist, and her smile is bright and genuine. Everyone loves Pod. It’s just the way things are. Which is why Silsi isn’t  _ certain  _ that the baby bump is fake.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, Pod,” Silsi says dryly.

“Oh, she knows,” Pod says, slipping Silsi a vial of poison. “But it’s going to take ages for her to train someone up to deal with the Templars.”

Another test, as usual. Gran wants to know just how much Silsi wants the family to succeed, now that its success isn’t her own. Silsi slips Pod her latest report. “Tell her Roper. He’s a deft touch with lyrium and he’s mean with that hammer. You’ll need to send Deena to keep him in line and make sure he’s not swindled, but they’re a strong team.”

Pod’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Good job,” she says. “That’s who Gran picked.”

Silsi grins back at her favorite cousin, sly and low. To the rest of the world, they appear to be bargaining, moving their hands. The merchant cover is a good one. She’ll have to remind Leliana to be careful about who they let into the camp. “The Nightingale’s their spymaster,” she says lowly, picking up a blade as if to examine it. “They’ll find out who I am eventually.”

“You gave us time to cover your tracks,” Pod says, nodding with the efficient practicality that all Cadashes have. “Besides that, they won’t spread it around. Can’t have their Herald being known as a ruthless Carta thug.”

Silsi taps her left brand and walks away. She likes Pod. She’ll probably never see her again; she hasn’t been officially disowned yet, but she knows it’s coming. It’s too complicated to have someone in line for the Deshyr seat who’s been in the Surface spotlight. Most humans don’t realize the Carta have a leadership. Gran will keep it that way.

* * *

 

It takes Leliana less time than Silsi expects for her to put the pieces together. She comes to Silsi, and closes the door behind her.

“Silsi Cadash, daughter of Lome Cadash, son of Lady Cadash herself,” Leliana’s eyes gleam brightly. “Third in line for the Deshyr seat of the Cadash family.”

Silsi fingers the knife under her pillow. “Yes,” she says, because there’s no point denying it—Leliana will have all the proof she needs and more before confronting Silsi.

“Well,” Leliana says, her smile sharper than a blade. “That simplifies things. I was worried why there were so many Cadash spies infiltrating us.”

Silsi smiles. “Gran frets,” she says.

“That does sound like the Lady Cadash,” Leliana says. “Now, I have some things that might be of interest to you.”

Leliana understands her. Underhanded trickery and violence is the language they speak, and they work well together.

* * *

 

Silsi  _ likes  _ her companions, but that doesn’t mean she trusts them.

Trust is precious, sacred, rare in the Carta. Trust is something they can’t afford, not when they all were raised knowing that the others would stab them in the back and cry over their corpse to get ahead.

And Silsi was leadership track. Her cousins have been trying to kill her since she was nine, when it became apparent to the oldest grandchild that Silsi was learning Gran’s lessons too well.

Silsi lies like breathing. She hums her ways through conversations with Vivienne and Solas, trying to learn everything she can about the Orlesian Court and the Fade. 

Silsi’s sure Vivienne suspects; she knows the Game too well to believe anything Silsi says, and she can’t help but feel that the other woman  _ approves _ of her underhanded nature. They dance around the subject, and both of them dig into each other’s pasts. It’s almost like home. Vivienne knows nobility like Silsi’s never had the opportunity to, and she’s willing to teach Silsi all of the important courtier things that Silsi will need to know if they are to build this Inquisition into something greater. They both want that. Silsi thinks they both need it. 

Solas gets under her skin like an itch with his comments about dwarves. Silsi has always prided herself on her intelligence, on her cunning. It’s second nature to her to spin a clever lie and to outthink her enemies, but Solas seems to think she’s an anomaly, rather than the product of her family. 

Silsi laughs it off to his face, but she privately vows to keep Solas as far away from Gran as possible. Gran wouldn’t take some uppity apostate indicating she’s not creative very well. He never seems to think she lies, at least. He doesn't think her clever enough for it. 

Dorian’s easier; she gets him to talk about Tevinter and about magic without needing to do much, and his questions in turn are intelligent and clever, but non-harmful. She tells him what Varric would know or what a well-informed Surfacer would know, the two of them standing in the snow. 

She likes Dorian; it’s hard not to, after everything they saw together, at Redcliff. 

Varric knows too much. He’s got a spy network of his own, and he knows the Carta, even if he doesn’t know her family.

“I met your grandmother once,” he says to her one night, when it’s just the two of them keeping watch in the Hinterlands, Dorian and Cassandra sound asleep. “Terrifying woman.”

“That’s Gran for you,” she says.

“I couldn’t figure out  _ who  _ you are, exactly,” Varric says, his eyes sharp. “My instincts say pretty high up, but I’m not sure  _ how  _ high.”

“I’m not anymore,” she says, holding up her hand, the light flickering as if to prove her point.

He looks at her, waiting.

Varric’s a liar too.

“Third,” she says. Varric’s eyebrows shoot up and he lets out a low whistle. She wonders how high he had guessed. Not that high, it seems. Maybe she should have lied.

But it doesn’t matter now; her dreams of ascendency are gone. Now she has a purpose in her bones and people whisper her name. Andraste has chosen her for this. Silsi is practical and skeptical, but a part of her can’t help but believe it. Silsi is the Herald of Andraste. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

“Lady Cadash  _ really  _ wanted to know what was going on at the Conclave then, to send you.”

“It’s lyrium,” she says with a shrug. “Everything comes back to lyrium, in the end.”

He makes a face at that, doubtlessly remembering the caves full of red lyrium they found that morning, and nods.

Sera is harder—Silsi’s not sure how to connect, isn’t sure what Sera wants to hear. But Sera… is nice. Fun. She looks at Sera, and realizes that Sera is  _ honest _ . Sera will only betray her if she  _ really  _ thinks Silsi deserves it, and even then, Silsi will know it’s coming.

She allows herself to trust, just a little. Loosen up. Smile a real smile. Sera won’t use them against her.

Cole looks at her, when they finally make their way to Skyhold, and whispers. “Lies. You tell them what they want to hear and they believe you but they don’t see you. Why can’t they  _ see you _ ?”

“That’s the point, Cole,” she says to him. “If they can’t see me, they can’t hurt me.”

“They won’t hurt you,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t,” she says, smiling at him.

She likes Blackwall. He’s a good man. He doesn’t seem to care who she is or how dirty her hands might be. He respects her. He doesn't seem to buy the fact that she was a minor negotiator, but he doesn't call her out on it either. He doesn't ask questions. Dorian accuses Blackwall of having a history, and Silsi wonders if it’s true. 

She decides it doesn’t matter. A Grey Warden is a Grey Warden. 

Cassandra is a different story. She is sharp edges and brilliant eyes and a resoundingly sharp judgement, but Silsi finds herself drawn in. Cassandra asks her if she believes in the Maker, and for once Silsi tells the truth. She tells her yes.

She knows Cassandra thinks she’s lying. But that’s fine. Silsi doesn’t need to be believed. She never has.

And then there’s  _ Bull _ .

* * *

 

Bull  _ gets  _ her, and it’s giddy. He’s also direct in a way that Vivienne isn’t—he’ll cut right through her lies, dig out the truth. And in turn, he’s honest with her.

_ Hissrad _ , the Qun calls him. The honest liar.

She likes him. Oh, she likes him a lot. She flirts with him shamelessly, and he flirts back sometimes, ignores her the rest, but he’s friendly and a good soldier so she doesn’t mind. His  _ mind _ , Maker. She wants to get inside that brain of his and see how he can always tell how she’s lying. She thought she had undone all of her tells, but Bull seems to find new ones.

“Wait, you have  _ how many  _ cousins?” Bull asks her.

“Thirty,” she says.

Bull pauses. “And here I thought dwarves didn’t have many kids,” he says.

“Well, running theory is that it improves once we get to the surface,” she says. “Distance from the Taint, my aunts think.”

Bull looks at her. She grins.

“And my gran started a tradition of going to Dust town in Orzammar. There are lots of kids there. No future, no family, lots of abandonment. If they’ve got parents, we ask if they’d be interested in sending their kid up to the surface. A lot of them are. Better living up here, even if it’s Carta living.”

“You take them into the clan,” he says.

“Bolsters the numbers. No one’s really sure how many Gran took in. Or who she took in. She faked a few pregnancies, but we’re not sure which ones were real and which ones were fake.”

“So no one knows which kids are hers by blood,” Bull says.

“Exactly. Keeps inheritance simpler.” She presses her mug of ale against his in a brief toast and they drink.

Trust is sacred. Trust is rare.

Trust is letting Bull press her against the wall and kiss her until her knees are weak and she’s breathless.

Trust is the word ‘katoh,’ a promise she knows, deep in her bones, he’ll always keep.

Trust is the look in his eyes as he turns to her, unsure of what to do as the Chargers prepare for battle below.

They’re a small company. A small company versus the complete forces of the Qunari.

But they’re  _ Bull’s _ . They’re Krem, Dalish, Rocky, Skinner, and the rest of them. They’re good men.

And it comes down to trust, doesn’t it?

She tells them to pull back, and she sees something change in Bull’s eyes.

She sleeps with him before she really trusts him, which is probably a mistake, but she can’t make herself regret it. She likes him, and they’re having fun. She’s had partners before—usually humans, because most of the dwarves she’s met are related to her, and she wants to avoid those kind of complications. Her mother, back when she was back home, was always trying to find a good political match for Silsi. Of course, good political matches couldn’t keep up with her, and the ones who could keep up with her were terrible matches politically.

But Bull… he  _ gets  _ her. He knows what she is and doesn’t hate her. He likes  _ her _ better than who she pretends to be for the people. He likes her, lying, scheming, power hungry as she is.

She lies next to him, laughing, and she sees the regret in his eyes in the rare moments he lets his guard down. He’s glad his men are alive, yes, but…

He misses the Qun. He doesn’t know who he is without it.

She whispers in his ear, every time he voices that fear.

“You’re a good man, Iron Bull.”

Because he  _ is _ . He’s  _ good _ , in a way that she is not. He lost his eye for a boy he didn’t know, who mourns a fisherman whose name he’s forgotten. He’s good and he’s kind, despite the blood lust and the darkness that threatens to consume him every day.

He makes her want to be better, she thinks, watching him drink with Krem and the others. He taught her the value of her soldiers. She threw away an alliance with the Qun to save a handful of good men. Once, she would have been horrified at the notion and cursed her own weakness. Now, in the strange dreams she now has because of the mark, she sees the Charger’s bodies broken on the shoreline, and she knows to call them ‘nightmares’.

She realizes she loves him then, watching him arm wrestle Rocky and call for another round of drinks.

She loves him.

The next day, she goes dragon hunting.

She realizes she trusts him on a normal day, when they’re laughing as they dress, and she realizes that she left her hidden boot knife in her room that morning, and she’s not scared at all, because Bull is here. Bull, who wears her necklace. Bull, who whispers the word, ‘kadan’ in her ear as she stares out the window and feels the weight of the lives on her shoulders.

Trust is a precious, trust is rare, trust is beautiful.

Trust is Bull at her back, or her at Bull’s back, the two of them covered in blood but still flirting until Cassandra’s ears turn red and Sera laughs.

Trust is the word ‘kadan,’ whispered in the dark. It’s a dragon tooth necklace they wear under their armor.

Trust is looking at the Viddasala and knowing that Bull will not budge an inch from his place at her side.

She kisses him quickly before running after Solas through the Eluvian, her hand burning up and doing her best not to scream. “I’ll come back to you.”

“Kadan!”

Silsi Cadash is a filthy liar.

And the Iron Bull knows it.


End file.
